Light of My Life, Fire of My Loins
by colossally abundant numbers
Summary: America and Russia spend the Cold War bombing themselves, over and over again, but never each other. France and England want nuclear weapons too, but they don't want to test on themselves, no, never that. Nuclear testing through the ages.


**Light of My Life, Fire of My Loins**

—**  
**

- Um, this is highly twisted, although I think it's appropriate for the gravity of the topic at hand. This wasn't originally going to be US/UK, but that wormed its way in somehow. The tone is kinda like (in)dependence, so if you enjoyed that, you'll enjoy this. Although I will say that it's not quite as dark, it's just that this is a depressing subject matter. -

—

England comes over one night, bandages covering most of his face, hands and torso. America tries his best to remain impassive, tries his best to show nothing but a surface concern. (It's not that he's being selfish, no, he's just tired of Europe and their wars - that's fair, isn't it?)

"I understand that you don't want to be in the war," England begins, and America does his best to not snap, "Yes, and I'd prefer it if you stopped trying to guilt me into coming," because he was _damn_ tired of listening to England's arguments about why America should just join already. He doesn't care that Canada and Australia and whatever slew of British colonies are already involved, he doesn't care that England _needs_ his help, because where was England when _he_ needed help?

(Where was England during the Civil War? Where was England when he was choking on dust in the mid-30s? Oh, sure, England came when France _fell_, but that was because he was desperate, and America had been no more than a last resort.)

"I fully understand," England repeats, "Even if I would much rather you conclude otherwise, I will respect your opinion." The "for now" was left unsaid, and England continues, "Do you remember that paper I sent you a few weeks ago?"

"What paper?" America grumbles, still feeling trace effects of the Depression pressing a headache into his forehead.

"Have you got short-term memory loss? It's that paper on uranium—how could you have not received it? I remember marking it with bright red packaging, and even someone with a pea-sized brain such as yourself could not possibly have missed the meaning of the packaging."

"Oh, and what does Great Britain want from me, the one with the pea-sized brain?"

England shifts his bandaged limbs out and grabs America's shoulders, shouting, "Have you seen the damn paper or not?"

It's clear that England's getting frustrated, but America is in no hurry. "Yes, I've seen it. What of it? You said something about it being useful for building a bomb, but in case you haven't realized yet England, _I'm not at war_." America levels England an annoyed look, doing his best to look at the parts of the man that aren't covered with bandages (even if those were few and far in between) and continues, "I don't see the use for a _goddamn bomb_ if I've got no one to level it against."

"That isn't the point, America. I, look I..."

"Oh, you need it, is that it?" America says with disgust, "You need it, so I have an obligation to make it for you? How very like you, England, to go around telling other people what to do, to go around telling other people that they need to do it for _you_. Why is everyone making sacrifices for _you_? Why are Canada and Australia even involved in this shitty war thousands of miles away from _their _homes?"

"Goddamn it, America! Leave Canada and Australia out of this! I didn't pressure them to declare war—they did so of their own accord, they did so because _they_ would never abandon their family, unlike a certain _someone_," England pauses, looking America in the eye.

"Oh, so I'm abandoning my family now? You think you would've survived this long if I hadn't given you money? You think I'm not involved anyway, you think we're not _all_ involved in this damn piss fight you Europeans started?"

England laughs then, trying his best not to choke on the bile in his throat. "You really don't know, do you? You've never been invaded by a truly hostile party before, you don't know what will happen at the end of all this. You think this is bad?" England peels off the bandages on his chest, revealing the torn flesh, ligaments and bone — it was where his heart had once been. He places his hand over his collarbone, puts pressure on it, and the brittle bone snaps in half.

Then England waves the torn half in America's face and whispers, "This is all nothing compared to what will happen if Germany wins."

America backs away, trying to look at the ceiling, at the floor, trying to look anywhere but at England. "Stop," he mumbles, "stop it, England. You're hurting yourself, and—"

"So what?" England asks, "What does it matter to _you_? I'm done for, I already know that, and why give Germany a nice experience when he tears my house upside down? He's going to fuck me, you know," England tears out a piece of skin (useless, so useless) and stares at America, who remains unmoved.

"He'll fuck me, and when he's done with me, you think I'll even be able to stand, to walk?" His lips twist into a sneer, and he continues, "But maybe, maybe this is what you want, hm? Just what you'd want—to see the British Empire on his knees—sprawled out on the floor. And maybe you want to fuck me too, maybe you want to—"

"I don't want that—I'm not like that, goddamnit, I'm _not_! You're the one who's sick, England, you and all the rest of Europe!" America screams, and England wonders if he's gotten the reaction he desires. America is still such a child, so easily moved, easily swayed by a few choice words. It would be so easy, he realizes, so easy to get America to do his bidding.

(_Did you think you were truly independent after all? And yet you speak my language, don't you? You eat my food, you read my papers, wear my clothing. You're mine, still mine, always mine._)

"You're sick, America," he says, shaking his head, "absolutely sick, and to think that I raised someone like you—to think—"

England feels an impending cough, and he swallows the blood, chokes it down. "But I suppose that is no matter, because I'm already done for, and I don't begrudge you for avoiding my fate. If you want advice though, you should arm yourself, make yourself untouchable, so that no matter who comes knocking at your door, you will always prevail."

England smiles then, bandaged face letting his grin stretch as wide as he could.

"Imagine, America, the power you will have when this is completed. Just imagine..."

(It was so simple back then - a single handshake and it was all over, all over.)

—

America insists that he be blindfolded.

"What, you don't trust me?" England asks, feigning offence.

"No," America replies, "I trust you. With my life, with everything. But you don't sound like you trust me—I mean, didn't you say the blindfold test was the ultimate test of trust? You _do_ trust me, right?"

England acquiesces, and so America drives through the desert with a blindfolded England by his side. England can hear—can _feel—_the grind of the car wheels against the sandy ground, he can hear it when the car suddenly breaks down in the middle of the road, can hear it as America gets out of the automobile and attempts to push it.

"Do you need help?" he asks.

But the car's already moving, and America's back inside, singing some loud tune that England doesn't care for. When they arrive at their destination an hour later, he removes his blindfold and finds America grinning at him.

"Welcome to the middle of nowhere," he says, pointing to the vast expanse around them.

England looks, takes into account the sand stretching for miles and miles with no end in sight, and says, "Frankly, it looks like hell."

And they would make it hell in a few years time, he realized, they would make ashes rise from the sand, create columns and columns of hell, a new style of architecture, perfect for their modern era.

(It'll be beautiful, he promises himself, _beautiful_.)

—

They were in bed together, clothes strewn in a messy stack on the floor of their dirt shack, and America had his legs tightly coiled around England's. His face was pressed against England's stomach, and he whispered something barely audible, something about—

"It's starting, England."

America tightens his grip on England's waist.

Then he screams, and England tries to tune him out, tries to think about how many people they had to kill that day in Europe, tries to justify in his mind what they were doing now, because—because this _had_ to be justified.

England sits up abruptly, sits up and watches as blisters rise on America's kneecap, watches as each of them burst, spewing liquid across the bedsheets. The burns spread then—they move from his kneecap onto his calves, blisters rising like columns of sand on a windy day. They rise and burst in quick succession, and America screams himself hoarse, voice drowned out by the deafening roar of the bomb.

"Be brave," England says, wrapping his arms around America's shoulders. He presses his lips to America's forehead, watching as the sweat pours from his former colony's forehead. He looks down and realizes that there's no skin where America's knee is supposed to be—it's just the brown, charred remnants of bone that greet him.

America's eyes are closed (squeezed tightly shut from the pain) and he does not see.

England fully expects him to scream when he sees what has become of his knee, but America keeps his composure. (In fact, he is so composed that England wonders if the bomb had changed Alfred, had rid him of his childish passions and puerile outbursts. He wonders if he ought to miss this, but then quashes the notion.)

"Help me to the door, England."

It's an odd request, one that England is loathe to fulfill.

"Why, America?" England asks, shifting to move to a more comfortable position. "You're in no condition to be moving around."

"I want to see it though...I want to see the bomb, England, I _need _to see the bomb. I didn't come here to miss this most crucial moment."

America adds a 'please' as a sign of goodwill, but England refuses to help him, refuses to rise. Instead, he watches, silent, as America tries to stand, tries to limp on his knee that was no longer a knee. Eventually, the nation manages to fumble over to the door, which he shoves open with so much force that the frame rattles in its bed. (He's strong, so strong, and England wonders if he's created a monster now, at long last...)

America heads off into the cloud of fire alone.

He comes back a new man, having conquered death and made it his own.

—

Some time later, in the midst of their victory celebrations, England sits with America at their favorite diner. It's lunch, and he orders a ham sandwich—not his favorite, but certainly a large improvement over the years and years of rationing. America flips through the menu and eventually settles on a burger of some sort.

(England stares at his bandaged hands and thinks nothing of it, because they'd just fought a war, right? It was only right that America would be covered in bandages, especially since he himself was hardly immune. But there's something wrong about the bandaging—something off about the wound—because the nation sitting across from him reeks of burning flesh. _What did you do?_ he wants to ask, _What happened to your left hand?_)

"Do you know what I saw that night?" America asks, eyes twinkling with the sort of mirth only a madman could muster.

"The end of the world is a pretty place, isn't it, America?" England stretches his legs out beneath the table, but he doesn't look at America, refuses because he doesn't want to see _those_ eyes anymore. Instead, he lets his outstretched hands play with the salt shaker, leaving a trail of salt crystals across the center of their table. (And he wonders, faintly, if America is sad, sad that he can't do the same, but it's a silly notion, isn't it?)

"Actually, the end of the world is rather overrated, but I still want to be there to see it. Better me than Russia, right?" Anyone, England thought bitterly, anyone was better than the Soviet Union.

"You always have to get what you want, don't you?" England replies, pausing to thank the waiter as his food arrives, "So selfish, America. Will there ever be a moment when you think of others first?"

America grunts in annoyance. "Oh, for heaven's sake, are you _still_ going on about that? I did help you _win_, you know, just in case you think my contributions to the war weren't enough. And I promise you—I'll never be the last one to enter a war again."

England nods, smiling, and asks, "How's your hand, America?"

"What?" America says sharply, dropping his half-eaten burger onto the plate. "It's nothing," he says defensively, moving his hands beneath the table.

"That was not a wound from the war, Alfred. I am not stupid, and it wouldn't do you any good to fool me anyway." He looks at America, meets the sharp glare of his former colony, and says the words no one wants to say.

"That was from the bomb, wasn't it? The gadget we spoke much of?"

America nods numbly, and England thanks all the gods in existence that tests can't be performed on small, rocky islands. But then he is scared, because he needs the bomb too, because what will they do when Russia gets his hands on it? America is prepared, but what about him?

—

The last war had been humiliating, and now the names were pouring in — "coward", "useless", "can't fight worth shit" — and France wondered — where did his glory days go? He wasn't that much of a fighter, sure, but he hadn't been half bad at it back in the day, back before Europe had twice descended into the mass chaos of war, war and more war.

France had been watching England. He would never admit to it, because it would be highly embarrassing to say that he'd been watching his not-quite-rival at work, but he had, and the nation was weak now, weak, just like he was. But England was still clinging on to the vestiges of respect, because he had found a way to leech off the weaponry of others.

England, France laughs to himself, had always been a leech, and now he'd found a worthy host in _Etats-Unis_. _Etats-Unis_, who'd actually been willing to share his weaponry with all of them, France included.

But _Angleterre_ is greedy, and perhaps _Angleterre_ is scared too. Because France hears that America isn't enough for England, that England isn't satisfied with watching America destroy himself, he won't be satisfied until he gets his own hands on the bomb as well.

England was afraid, that much France could tell.

"America is independent," England had explained.

"And that means something to you?" France had asked, "Clearly he likes you despite everything, and perhaps he won't mind if you take what he considers his own. What did he say back in the day, when we were fighting against _Chine_? 'Blood is thicker,' I believe. Well, it seems like the 'blood' is thicker than ever now."

"You don't know a thing, France! America—he still won't talk to me about Egypt. And have you seen the two of them — Russia and America — when they get together? Have you seen the way they're always glaring at each other, ready to rip each other's throats out?"

"I have," France says simply, "and so what? It will only make America more motivated to test the bomb. Perhaps you can work your charms and get him to share the results with you. He always liked you best, didn't he?"

"I will not be dependent on him," England snaps, glaring at France, and France just laughs, because of course England would ever admit to being_dependent_, but that admission doesn't change the truth. "I am perfectly capable of exercising my own tests."

And so France watches, watches as England decides to exert his independence, watches as England knocks on Australia's door.

France does not understand why Australia agrees at all.

—

When the Suez Crisis is over and behind them, America abruptly suggests that they visit Nevada.

"It's a nice place," he explains, "mostly desert and no humans for miles on end." Not really all too different from New Mexico, England realizes, and he knows their purpose.

When they get there, England finds himself in America's bed again, holding tightly onto a shivering Alfred. America kisses him on the lips, slowly, and locks his arms around England's waist. England doesn't bother kissing him back, because he knows already—because it's the same thing every time.

(And this is why they can't seem to move past second base, because every time he tries it's—)

The bomb roars across the Nevadan desert, and America screams. His body folds in half, in pain, and his toes curl against the bedsheets.

Then his knee explodes, and bits of flesh, skin and bone fly into the surrounding air. England closes his eyes, because even if he's used to the sight of torn flesh after the war, he doesn't want to see more of the same. It's disgusting, horrifying, and he's much too old for this, much too old. So he keeps his eyes shut and whispers soothing words into America's ears, rubs the nation's back, hoping to ease the pain. And America cries into his lap, digs his nails into England's arms, and England can only hold on, chanting empty encouragements.

_— Because the next day, it's lather, rinse, repeat. —_

America makes him take off his shirt, kisses him on his lips, his cheeks, his chest. Then the kisses devolve into muffled screams, and England can only sit there and watch as their bedsheets are once again stained red.

"I thought you hated this color," he whispers, but America doesn't hear him and he knows it's useless, always useless.

_— Sick, that's all they've ever been. —_

"I hate the sounds," America says during one of his few moments of coherence, "They take over my mind—and they're so loud, so _goddamn_ loud and I can't do a thing to stop it!" He grips England's arms again, trying to shift to a more comfortable position, but it doesn't work, it never works.

And as America's knee explodes into the winter air, England finds himself pinned under America's weight, finds that his shirt is a good muffler for the nation's screams.

"When will you stop?" he asks, talking to himself more than anything. Because the world knows enough about weapons and warfare and destruction, because even if America were to stop now, he could still blow up Russia several times over.

Then America answers, voice hysterical and almost disbelieving. "Didn't you hear about Russia, England? Didn't you _hear_? He's got the bomb too, and I'm not going to let him just kill me! _You know I can't let him win!_"

"So," England says, wrapping his shirt sleeve around America's torn kneecap, "you're just going to kill yourself instead?"

America doesn't answer.

_— Once more, lads, once more, with feeling! —_

"He ready yet? It's only two more now, and they won't be half as strong as before. We'll get it over quick, it'll be like pulling off a bandage!" One of the workers.

"No," England snaps, wondering how America's people could be so callous. Alfred's knee hadn't recovered yet, hadn't recovered _at all_, and it was far too soon to be testing again. But he'd seen the schedule—someone had written neatly into their gridded calendar the dates — "November 15 - GUNDI", "November 27 - ANACOSTIA".

It's inevitable, he thinks, inevitable that in three more days America would once again be screaming into his arms, tearing at his own skin. And then at the end of it all, he would smile at England, say that this was their only choice, say that it was better than living in Russia's house, because anything was better than residing with a _dirty bastard Commie_.

___— _And, again, lather, rinse, repeat. _—_

"The doctor said you should lie down."

"I don't need a doctor," America snaps, standing up on wobbly knees that don't hold. The gauze wrapped around his knee is dripping wet, soaked through with blood and torn apart by America's own handiwork.

"America, _please__—_the last test was underground, and the doctor said that your popliteal vein had burst! You _need_ to sit down - there's no point in exacerbating your injuries!" America doesn't listen, and England continues his yelling. "Goddamn it, Alfred! How exactly do you expect to face down Russia like this?"

"Of course I can face Russia," America whispers, "I'm still strong, stronger than all of you _combined_!"

Then he leaps forward (ignores his knee, his useless left knee), grabs England's wrists, and shoves the nation into a wall. "I'm not weak," he snarls, grabbing England's collar, "I'm not _fucking weak_!"

England doesn't bother fighting back. He just watches, dazed, because America shouldn't be able to stand at all, because America should be on the floor, nursing his wounds, not picking up England like it was the easiest thing in the world.

America shouldn't even have the strength to shout.

"Where did you get this strength?" he wants to ask, but he knows already, because _he_ approved of every power boost. Only America, he thinks, only America would willingly do this to himself, and then hand over the results to a third party. Because when America was incapacitated, otherwise occupied, England had given the okay to the workers, told them that, yes, Alfred was ready for Operation Sunbeam, Flintlock, Latchkey.

America was always ready.

—

America hobbles to their next meeting on crutches, and he's disgusted that Russia's not doing the same. Instead, Russia has his arms around Kazakhstan protectively, and he smiles upon seeing America.

"How are you holding up, _Amerika_?" he asks.

And America glares back, huffs and turns away. _Russia_, he thinks bitterly, _Russia doesn't know a thing about sacrifice._

He spends the rest of the meeting staring intently at Kazakhstan, because the nation is covered with bandages, and they're not even wrapped properly. Then, to his surprise, Kazakhstan comes up to him when the meeting is over. Russia glances at them disapprovingly, but Kazakhstan ignores the nation.

"Where are yours? The scars," Kazakhstan explains, pulling up his shirt, revealing more bandages than one can count.

America looks at him numbly and manages, "They're here." He lifts up his pants' leg and points to his knee.

For once, he's not afraid of the other nations gawking at his wound, mocking him for his follies, because he's glad that someone finally _understands_.

After all, despite spending all that time with him underground, England would never understand. England had never felt the bomb, never felt the unbearable pain as the bomb tore through his skin, never heard the deafening roars echoing in his ears for days on end. England is lucky, but Kazakhstan—

Kazakhstan is different. Kazakhstan is like him, and for once, America is glad.

—

Morphine is a controlled substance, a schedule II drug. It's wrong, England knows, but he can't look at America anymore, can't continue to watch the nation scream, bleed, cry. So he steals the drug, sneaks into a hospital and obtains all the dosage they would ever need. Then he goes to America's house, tells him that it's doctor's orders.

"You need to take it," he explains, trying to avoid the pained look on America's face, because the way America's crouched there makes him look like a wounded animal, poised to strike, to kill at a moment's notice. (Perhaps, just a little, he's afraid, horribly afraid...)

"I _told you_ that I don't need a goddamn doctor! I can handle myself, I'm not like the Soviet Union, cowardly little shit that he is!"

Then America grabs the package in England's hands and throws it to the floor, not caring that his carpet is stained with a white, powdery mess.

"Fuck this, alright? I don't need _help_, and if you don't give a shit about my rules, then get the hell out of _my_ house!"

"America..." England whispers, "I'm only trying to help."

He looks at America, framed by the doorway, holding onto his crutches like his final lifeline.

And he leaves, because he doesn't want to argue anymore, especially when he can't win anyway.

—

Ever since the first International Freedom Festival, America had never once forgotten his birthday, _never once_, until he misses it three years in a row.

And Canada, frustrated, chances a call.

"Shouldn't you be at the border?" he asks, not in the mood to dance around the topic, because even if he was before, he's not anymore. He's gotten used to America's presence in his life, and they're close enough that there's no reason for him to put up pretenses, to be shy.

"Oh, shit! I—I forgot. I guess, um, you probably get that excuse a lot, and well, I'm really sorry I forgot your birthday!" America's voice sounds strained at the other end, and Canada does not buy his excuse.

"Why are you apologizing? It's _your_ birthday today, Alfred, and I don't remember you or anyone else ever forgetting _that_. How could you possibly miss your own birthday party?" Canada does his best to not sound bitter, because he's more concerned for his brother's well-being than he is for the fact that his birthday was forgotten. (Because the latter was normal, and the former was...)

"I—I've just been tired lately. You know, Russia and all that. We've been busy."

"I'm coming over, America," he says, because he's truly tired of waiting.

"Wait!" his brother protests, "Hey, wait, Canada! Don't—not _now_, alright? You can come by tomorrow or something, but just not—"

America falls silent, and Canada looks out the window listlessly. He suddenly notices the lights—that the lights in America's Detroit house are on. It was clear that America hadn't forgotten after all, because his brother was only a few hundred yards from him, but was refusing to meet him.

"You're in Detroit, aren't you?" he concludes, "Because I can see the lights to your house from my place, and they're on."

"I—Matt—seriously, don't come over! Hey, Canada, are you listening to me? Don't come, _don't come over_, just _don't_!" His brother is bordering on hysterics, and Canada forces himself to stay calm.

—

Canada finds America's spare key buried under a certain flower. When he opens the door, the house is silent, and he wanders through the halls, mildly disturbed. He hears noises coming from the kitchen, and he heads there with cautious steps. His brother sits alone on the floor, and he's covered himself in yellow caution tape, except that he's written over the 'CAUTION' with 'RADIATION'.

And when America sees Canada, he gasps, terrified.

"Canada! Why are you here? I thought I told you not to come over! Don't you see the signs—are you _blind_? Fuck it, _don't come near me!_"

Canada doesn't listen though, and he walks closer, almost close enough to touch.

America backs away in horror and screams, "Don't come near me! Goddamn it, do you _want_ to die? Don't you remember Slotin? Just stay on your side of the fucking border and _don't touch me ever again_!"

"I won't die," Canada says, and he places his fingers in his brother's hair, tames it the way only he can. His brother's always been more paranoid than necessary, but he swears to himself that he won't allow America to go through this alone.

(Because some monsters are best faced together, and at the end of the day, it's his brother who remembers him best.)

—

England has a difficult time believing that Canada is the first to complain.

And complain Canada does, first with a letter sent through express mail, and then in person. In person, Canada flies across the Atlantic and knocks on England's door. England greets his not-quite-colony-anymore warmly, and asks him to come in. He makes tea and pours Canada a cup.

But the first thing Canada says is: "Did you receive my letters?"

England looks at him tiredly, and eventually concedes that he did.

"So then," Canada says, "_why_? Why are you doing this?"

"I am not responsible for your brother's actions, Matthew. I would think you'd know that. He's the one who declared independence from me, and it's no longer my responsibility to monitor the sorts of games he chooses to play with Russia. And I do hope you realize that _Russia_ is why he's in the state he's in, not me."

"This isn't about Russia," Canada snaps, "because America may be doing those tests to feel safe around Russia, but isn't it clear that _you're_ using him? You're asking him to do all the work and share everything with you—how nice it is for _you_, right, England? You don't have to lift a goddamn finger and you still know _everything_ you need to know."

"Matthew," England says with deadly calm, "Do you really think I'm only doing this for myself? Because you don't benefit at all, right?"

Then he leans forward, lips pressed into a thin line, and says, "Would _you_ prefer to bear the consequences instead? As I recall, you do have vast expanses of empty, unoccupied land—quite the ideal place for bomb testing, don't you think?"

England glares at Canada and says, "How about it, Matthew, would you volunteer yourself up for this?"

Canada shakes his head mutely.

"Then perhaps," England snaps, "Perhaps it would do you some good to not poke your nose where it doesn't belong."

(And England tells himself that he doesn't mean to snap at Canada, he's just sick and tired and stressed, because nothing is going right anymore. He's tired of telling the workers that it's okay to proceed onto round five-hundred-and-forty-one, because America's knee has recovered enough so that he can withstand _yet another_ trial. He's so goddamn sick of this, and even if he _does_ want the data, as Canada had put so eloquently, he's sick, he's absolutely_sick_ of it all.)

—

France is sick of watching the two of them, he's tired of listening to their kissing, tired of seeing the way their hands are always interlaced at meetings. There is a short reprieve when he and England come up with the brilliant plan to invade Egypt, but then the two lovebirds are back at it again, and France is repulsed, disgusted. (Jealous.)

So he tells America that he wants out, that he no longer cares to be a leech the way _Angleterre_ is.

"I can do this on my own," he explains.

America just nods, shrugs it off, and France wants to tell him he's stupid, _so stupid_. Because the nation is standing on crutches, the nation can barely walk, can barely _stand_. America, he thinks, seems perfectly content to bomb himself into oblivion, Russia be damned. How had _Angleterre_ raised such a dumb child?

But then, France realizes, perhaps England had planned for this, because at the end of the day, no one wants to test on themselves, right? Wasn't that why England had initially gone to Australia?

_Dieu merci pour les colonies! _[1]

(_Dieu merci!_ France cries, and he heads off to Algeria.)

—

**notes (warning: really long):**

[1] "_Dieu merci pour les colonies!"_ = "Thank god for colonies!" Actually, since my French is bad, this might be wrong, so corrections are appreciated. (That the punchline might be grammatically wrong is...depressing. D:)

Inspiration for this came from a video I watched about nuclear testing by various countries around the world. It was rather disturbing:

- The US had 1054 tests in various test sites, but most of them in Nevada.  
- The USSR had 715 tests, mostly in the Semipalatinsk test site in Kazakhstan.  
- The UK had 45 tests, most of them done in Australia, and a number in the US (joint testing). They had so few tests compared to everyone else because they shared the US's testing data.  
- France did most of their testing in Algeria and French Polynesia (210 total).

Basically, the two facts I noticed that stuck with me:

- the UK and France did all their tests on various colonies/former colonies  
- the USSR and the US spent more time testing nukes on themselves than on each other

Other facts:

- March 1941 - the UK discovered a fact about uranium that would prove very useful in the creation of bombs. They sent this info to the US, but there was no response. Mark Oliphant personally went to the US to convince them otherwise. He apparently goaded the Americans into kickstarting their nuclear research programme. This eventually turned into a joint British, Canadian and American effort.

- The UK did not have much access to US data before 1958, when the US-UK Mutual Defence Agreement was signed. The Suez Crisis was occurring before this, so their relations weren't particularly warm until after it was over.

- France (under the leadership of Charles de Gaulle) left NATO because they were sick of the UK - US lovefest, and also because the US was dominating NATO agenda. The precursor to this was the fact that France felt betrayed when the US didn't help in the Suez Crisis. (Somehow UK - US relations pulled out of that one intact.)

- The Semipalatinsk nuclear testing site in Kazakhstan was the USSR's go-to place for nuclear testing, and thousands were exposed to unhealthy amounts of radiation. Kazakhstan's Nevada-Semipalatinsk anti-nuclear movement was inspired by protests in Nevada.

- Louis Slotin, a Canadian scientist, was killed by radiation poisoning during one of the tests

- International Freedom Festival: a joint Canadian-American July 1st/4th celebration on the Windsor/Detroit border.

Please note that some of the interactions _do not_ follow history:

- That scene with Canada complaining to England was especially inaccurate, because I don't think Canada was more vocal than other countries in complaining. In fact, protesters were a lot more vocal in the US and the UK (for obvious reasons).

That's all and thanks for reading! Feedback is always appreciated! :)

**edited Mar 31st:** Anon reviewer - _oh my god_! You just made me realize something I should've mentioned way at the beginning! This thread on Mefi - metafilter . com / 101627 / Japanpostearthquake-nuclear-crisis-keeps-going - totally inspired me. And in fact, that line you cited, "For the entirety of the Cold War we've lived in fear of being nuked by the other side when, in fact, each side has spent 60 years nuking the shit out of themselves", was the exact line that inspired me.

Also, a couple comments down someone said "I like how Britain and France wanted to have nuclear weapons, but just didn't feel like testing nuclear missiles within their own borders. Thank god for colonies!" That, of course, is the origin of the last line ('thank god for colonies' is also the name for my saved doc), but by the time I was done researching, I'd somehow muddled the origin of it all. ;(

PS: Anon-reviewer - you read Metafilter? So, so awesome! ;D I'm way too happy now. Wish you were less anonymous so there was some way we could communicate. :P


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